


Every Sinner has a Future

by Corycides



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, M/M, Multi, Omega Verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 01:55:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corycides/pseuds/Corycides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate-Universe Omegaverse. </p><p>Secrets, lies and broken mate-bonds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Steph_Schell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steph_Schell/gifts).



All teenagers think they are freaks. Every weird spot or patch of hair is proof that you are an unlovable mutant visited on mankind by a cruel and uncaring god. It was actually, Emma felt, satisfying in a weird, nauseating way to have proof you were right.

‘I’m pregnant,’ Emma said, her voice odd and breathless. She sat on the ugly sofa in the family room, her hands twisting around and around in her lap. ‘It’s Bass’, or Miles’.’

Her Dad turned off the news. The click made it all seem terribly real and Emma dissolved into raw, desperate tears. It was her Dad who force-fed her cups of hot sweet tea and biscuits; her mom who made all the careful, discreet calls. Theron’s only bred with other therons: alphas, betas and, since she clearly wasn’t either of those, omegas.

‘I have to tell them,’ she protested. ‘It’s...it’s the right thing to do. It’s only fair?’

The look her parents traded was nearly as bad as her Dad turning the TV off. Emma knew about the laws and the subsidies for Therons and about the prejudices too. She’d railed about it with Miles when he lost his place on the football team - ‘in case of a rage’ - and argued with Bass when he said there was no point going to college.

It wasn’t like therons couldn’t be doctors or lawyers or bakers; it was just that Emma couldn’t think of any who were. Alphas and betas were stronger than baseline humans, some of them had strange mental abilities to boot and, well, there was the rage. They were just better suited to joining the army or the police, professions that gave them ‘an outlet’.

It was just weird to think of all that silent social pressure suddenly directed at her.

‘Don’t I have to tell them?’

Her mom knelt down next to her. Judge Alice Winters-Bennett who’d never broken a law, or guideline, of god or man in her life.

‘It’s a bad time to be different,’ she said carefully. ‘I raised you to be brave, to stand up for what you believe and who you are? That’s important, so important, but to make a difference you need all the help you can get. You need an education and a career and friends - all that goes away if you tell Bass or Miles about the baby.’

‘They can’t take my scholarship,’ Emma protested. ‘I mean, they can’t make me do anything I don’t want?’

‘It’s the government,’ her Dad - who’d never met a cause he’d not chain himself to something for - said. ‘They can do what they like, Emma. Therons are assets.’

She didn’t believe him. Not really. Not then. If Bass or Miles had written, or called or anything… It would have been different, probably even shittier but different. Except they didn’t and Emma went to visit her Great-Aunt Serena, she of the conveniently fragile hip and Savannah town house.

There was a Great-Aunt Serena. She’d been a punk. Her blue rinse was actually periwinkle and she had sleeves of tattoos from armpit to elbow. Rebellion had little zest in the Bennett family. Emma stayed with her, sweating out the wet-summer heat as she swelled up like a corpse in a culvert. It wasn’t weird - that was weird. She was just pregnant; it was just a baby.

A baby with a 75% chance of being theron; a 45% chance of being Alpha if Miles was the father.

There was a lot of statistics. Her evening visitors - new friends of Aunt Serena’s supposedly - brought it with them. It turned out the leaflets that the army had given Miles after he tested in were mostly full of crap.

65% of pair-bond therons killed each other before hitting their fourth decade.

45% of betas turned feral, 30% of alphas.

30% of theron pregnancies miscarried; 15% killed the bearer.

Unofficially, most therons had addictive disorders and their surviving children were fucked up.

The last was the scariest - because it wasn’t dry and clinical. It was just the blunt, this is the truth fact according to people who had reason to know.

Oh, and one last bit of information Emma picked up. Being omega sucked. It was all the shit bits of being Theron and some extra crappier bits just for them. No enhanced strength -well, stronger than baseline, but not nearly as strong as other Therons - no adrenaline pumping rage and you could only ‘get it up’ - metaphorically for women - for dominant therons.

‘You are much more sensitive to the needs of others,’ Winnie told her. The beta had scars from one ear to the other, runnels carved into her tanned skin. No-one ever mentioned it. She’d done it to herself, she told Emma calmly, after her alpha had died in a firefight in Iran. ‘A peacemaker. People like you; they want to make you happy.’

‘Great. You can leap tall buildings in a single bound, I can host dinner parties that won’t get awkward,’ Emma crabbed. She didn’t feel likable, or happy. ‘I thought omegas were the punching bags of therons?’

Amusement twisted Winnie’s scars. ‘It’s not like that - not always like that. If I have a row with another beta, or an alpha, it’ll be a fight. I can yell at you without it turning into a knock out brawl. You don’t have to lie down and cry over it - you can leave, you can argue it’s unfair, you can call me an ass. It’s just not...a challenge? I’m not compelled to see which of us is dominant.’

Emma rolled her eyes. ‘That’s such a load of sexist bullshit; we’re not animals. We can talk about who’s in charge instead of thumping each other.’

‘No,’ Winnie said. ‘Or you can, we can’t. Some alphas are better at dominant games than others. They all play them. You’ll get used to it.’

No. She wouldn’t, she didn’t want to. All she wanted was a normal life (and Bass and Miles, but they obviously didn’t want her, so fine).

She gave birth at eight months - not unusual apparently - and her baby girl was a baby boy. So much for her almost supernatural sensitivity. They had plans, networks and parents in wherever who’d take care of him and keep him safe and secret. Emma sat in bed, cuddling her son with his fluffy blonde curls and impossible blue eyes (lots of babies had blue eyes, but she knew he was going to keep them) and went ‘no’.

They argued and pushed and told her it was best.

‘No.’

That was the one advantage of being an omega, she realised. She was essentially immovable as long as she didn’t move herself. They could argue, but they couldn’t force her to do anything.

‘You and me, sprog,’ she told her baby.

‘He needs a name,’ Aunt Serena said. She held up a hand when Emma opened her mouth. ‘And one day you will be happy I didn’t let you go with Trout.’

‘Sam.’ It was after her favourite character on a TV show, but Serena didn’t need to know that. ‘Samuel Bennet.’

 

Theron ‘omegas’ function as the social lubrication in theron groups, enabling both social groups and pairbonds to function. They are such a small proportion of an already minority group that it is difficult to make any definitive statements about them. Theories vary between omegas being a latent mutation, activating when exposed to the hormones of pregnancy, and the idea that a theron-fathered infant releases some specific chemical that alters the chemistry of the previously baseline mother. Either way, it is only after their first pregnancy that theron omegas have been recorded demonstrating their distinctive theron traits: empathy, theroncentric sexuality and the once yearly ‘heat’.

 

Jasper, Indiana.

 

Emma read the broadsheet as she finished her breakfast, scraping the dregs of sweetened porridge from around the bowl. Most of the stories were second verse, same as the verse - editor and banker Emmet’s weekly self-aggrandisement, reports on how the crops were doing, one or two crackpot theories about how the Blackout happened.

This week they’d added rumours that Monroe had somehow managed to turn the power back on, and more reliably - and relevant to Emma’s life - there was an outbreak of rabies two towns over. She grimaced, folding the paper, and made a mental note to get her rifle out. First time a rabid dog had crossed through, no one had been sure what to do. The thing had been suffering. It had bitten the school-teacher, Mrs Tanner, and it took a long time for her to die.

Sammy had killed the dog with a rock when it went to attack the other children. He’d been 13. The recruiters had heard and come calling. Luckily they believed the literature that said theronic traits only established themselves in late puberty. It put him on their radar though.

After that Emma carried the rifle whenever things were tense, even if they knew the militia were near, as if being prepared now would put that slip back in the bottle. It couldn’t, of course. The recruiters came back when he was 18, but…

She hated to admit it - stereotypes about therons had screwed up a lot of lives royally - but Sammy wasn’t suited to any post-Blackout job paths other than soldier. He was too social to be a hunter, but not social enough to put up with working for any of their base-line neighbours - and he was no good at bending the neck when the tithe came due or bandits rolled through.

Alone, he’d have gotten himself killed eventually. At least in the militia, he’d have back up and Monroe treated his theron recruits well.

Emma shook off the past. It had been the mention of him in the paper. Most of the time she didn’t let her brain connect General Monroe and her high school boyfriend together, most of the time she didn’t think about either of them at all.

Not as much as she used to anyhow. The mating-bond...well, like she’d always said - being omega could be a pain in the ass. Maybe not quite as bad as she’d thought when she was a teenager - although she still didn’t see why she couldn’t bench-press a car - but still a pain.

She took her dishes into the kitchen and piled them in the basin in the sink. Heather, her housekeeper, always told her,, ‘just leave them, I’ll take care of them when I get in’, but 44 years of being her mother’s daughter outweighed four years of widow-woman bullying.

‘Ms Bennett!’ a shrill, kid’s voice yelled her name somewhere in the distance. Emma’s first thought was of the rabid dog and she grabbed the rifle, running for the front door. It was young Matheson Greer (there had been a trend, about ten years ago, that went awkward about five years ago) tearing up the road to her house on skinny legs. He skidded to a stop against her legs. ‘Judge Bennett, ma’am!’

‘Emma,’ she corrected. Pointlessly. ‘What’s wrong, what is it?’

He jerked his arm around, pointing up.

‘Da says there’s choppers coming,’ he said, panting. ‘Said it’s freaking miracle and to get you. Ma’am?’

Emma could hear him, but she couldn’t bring herself to move. Her eyes were glued to the convey of helicopters bearing down on the town. It had been fifteen years since she’d last seen anything but a bird or a bug in the sky. Something she’d once thought of as commonplace now looked insanely impractical. Impossible.

‘Ma’am?’ Matheson tugged her sleeve. ‘Da said you should come to town.’

‘I will,’ Emma said. ‘I just need-’

Change. Preen. Make herself look pretty. She was a grown woman, for god’s sake. Middle-aged if she’d not been a theron and definitely, by her own choice, a spinster. She wasn’t going to put on her prettiest dress and unearth the hoard of festival make-up to impress her ex.

‘I’m coming,’ she corrected herself. ‘I just need to hide my rifle.’

Matheson nodded solemnly. She hurried back inside, kicking the rug in the kitchen. There was a trapdoor there. The one time the militia had searched her house, they’d crowed over finding that and given her hard, suspicious looks. Except the only thing she kept down there were preserves, sealed bags of her old law books and slabs of salted meat.

It was two hands over and the edge of a buckled jammed into a loose seam that popped up the loose boards over her small weapons cache. She slotted the rifle in on top of ammo and Winnie’s M9 that she’d looted off the beta’s corpse, then she slipped the boards back into place and stamped them down as firmly as she could. The rug was smoothed back down - brightly coloured and inoffensive.

Emma looked around quickly, paranoia nipping at her, but there was nothing out of place. At some point, between the kitchen and the front porch, her fingers pulled the tie out of her hair. The dark auburn mass slid loose over her shoulders. It was ridiculous vanity, a small sop to her pride, but it didn’t hurt anyone - except maybe her - so she left it.

She outpaced Matheson - Matt, until the militia left - back into town. Bill Greer, the town sheriff and her perennially hopeful suitor, met her at the green.

‘Is it Monroe?’ he asked anxiously, as if she had any special source of information. ‘What’s he want here?’

Her stupid heart gave a little bounce at the question. She squished it down firmly. ‘I don’t know, your guess is as good as mine. Just keep everyone out of trouble, OK? If they’ve got the power back on...God, Bill. Can you imagine?’

He bit his lip and shook his head. ‘We’re at war. Why’d he take time out from that to come here?’

‘Maybe he wants to put up a plaque: Emperor Monroe was born here,’ she joked, spreading her fingers out in a ‘ta-da’ gesture. ‘Or it’s just a stopover to somewhere else. What else could it be? Him and Miles are the only interesting things to come out of here for 50 years.’

‘There’s you.’

She rolled her eyes at him and pushed her way through the crowd, tilting her head back to watch the choppers touch down. Bill stuck to her shoulder.

‘I remember when we were at school,’ Bill said. ‘They both had eyes for you. No one else even had a look-in.’

He sounded jealous. Emma sighed. She’d never encouraged Bill, even when she’d thought… Well, you didn’t have to enjoy sex to have it. Sometimes it had seemed worth it, for the company.

‘Miles dated half the cheerleading squad,’ she said dryly. ‘Bass screwed the other half on the sly. They might have had eyes for me, but they’d dicks for a lot of people.’

Besides, she really doubted the President of the Republic had got the power back on just so he could play Friends Reunited with his high school ex. If he had...that was verging on the clinically pathetic. Speaking of which, she held her breath as the choppers landed. It had been a long time since she’d seen Bass. He looked different from the boy he’d been when she loved him, but she’d know him anywhere. It hurt her heart.

His eyes passed over her like she was just another face in the crowd. It was what she wanted - safest - but it was still a bit of a bruise to the ego. A quarter-of-a-century though, she was a different woman. Quite literally, based on the genetic alterations of her omega activation.

‘Maybe he’s just here to see his family,’ she said, voice going gentler than she’d meant. ‘It might be his last chance.’


	2. Chapter 2

When Bass was a kid, he’d thought he was normal. He’d thought everyone could smell emotions on the wind, could - had to - run until their head with fizzy with adrenaline and couldn’t tell the difference between a good fight and a good fuck. Why wouldn’t he think that was...baseline, Miles had been the same.

It turned out it wasn’t - that he was freak. Him and Miles had been freaks together though, so it was OK. Everything had been OK - even the bad shit - when they were together. That was done now, though.

Bass sprawled out on the chair in front of the fire, legs stretched out in front of him, and watched Emma sleep. Heat scalded his back, itching at the back of his neck. He ran hotter than most - Miles ran hotter still - so he was used to a cold room. Emma felt the cold though, all fine bones and delicacy, so he’d ordered the hearths prepared.. He’d been going to kill her. That had been the plan: kill them all and let Miles wade in their ashes. Turn Miles’ life to ashes - just like he’d brought Bass’ down around his ears.

Then he’d kissed her, trying to drink her down. The memory made him tighten, heat clenching around his balls. He chased it off his tongue with a swallow of whiskey.

All the atrocities that could be laid at his feet, all the bodies he’d laid out in their graves, and he couldn’t bring himself to close one pair of pretty, pale eyes.

Not yet. Maybe once Miles saw that he had her, that he’d lost; maybe Bass would do it then. Break it out and then rub it in.

The creak of the bed make him shift, his attention focusing on her. She was sitting up, her hair bright and loose over her shoulders and a sheet tugged up over her breasts. It made him forget about Miles. No, nothing did that. Certainly not Emma, who wore Miles’ shadows on her skin. It just made him remember when he wasn’t so angry. She shifted towards the edge of the bed and stopped, staring at him. Her eyes were wide and colourless, a grey so clear they looked like water, and she was afraid. Of him.

Anger was hot and dry in his throat, the too-fast of pulse of blood behind his eyes. She should know better than that. His lips twitched in a grimace of self-mockery. He’d planned to kill her - he still might kill her - but he was angry she was scared of him.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

‘Waiting for you to wake up.’

She looked at him and down at the bed. Her nose wrinkled - the same ‘this is ridiculous’ wrinkle he remembered so well - and she wriggled out of bed and wrapped the sheet around herself with a few deft tucks. An old sourness turned in his gut and he wondered if she’d gone to a lot of toga parties in university.

Or frat parties. Or sorority parties. If she’d dated a lot or thought of him. Them. They’d both loved her, both wanted her, but she wasn’t going to want to share them forever. So they’d given her up, they’d agreed. It was a sacrifice.

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked, walking over and sitting down opposite him. Her feet were bare against the polished wooden floor and the sheet slipped, revealing the curve of a pale thigh. He took another drink and compared her to Rachel. Red hair instead of pale, pale eyes instead of blue and resilience instead of resistance.

He’d always imagined Rachel as their adult version of Emma - the heady madness of fucking in barns and cars and all wrapped up in each other gone sour and recriminatory. They’d been friends once - sort-of. It was different with Emma, she didn’t...scrape on him. Never had.

‘Whatever I want,’ he said.

It startled him when she laughed. From the way she hid the sound behind her hand, it startled her to. She ducked her chin, dropping her eyes. Good theron management, the care and upkeep of a beta. He wondered where she’d learned that. Not from him, and he wanted to kill her again.

Instinct made him grab her arm and lift it, bending it reveal the blue-veined vulnerability of her wrist. He breathed in, drawing the taste of her over his tongue. If she’d fucked other therons, it hadn’t been recently. Theron mark hung around longer that cat piss, something about pheromones and genetic markers.

Emma smelled human. It was strange, smelling her without the heavy musk of Miles layered into her scent. Without it he could smell sweet rose wine and an odd, empty chemical smell.

‘You’re sick?’ he asked sharply, looking up.

She flinched and reached up, rubbing her neck with nervous fingers. Her eyes flicked away from him again, hiding under dipped lashes. No. I...not sick. I’m diabetic.’

‘Do you need anything?’

Her eyebrow quirked and she didn’t quite look up. ‘Does it matter?’

No. ‘Yes. You matter.’

She shook her head. ‘Let me go home then, Bass. I’m not first lady material.’

‘Maybe I just want you for a whore,’ he said flatly. Hurting her felt almost as good as having her. He could hear the jerk of her heart, smell the pain in the flood of chemicals under her skin. So close to his mouth, he couldn’t resist pressing his lips to her pulse. It throbbed against his lips. His tongue. ‘Or maybe I’ll just lock you up in a dark room, just to wait for him. Just so he knows that every day he stayed away you suffered for it.’

It sounded mad to his own ears, the tight snarl of someone, something dangerous. He just couldn’t stop it.

Emma just smiled at him. ‘You wouldn’t do that. Kill me, maybe, but you aren’t going to torture me.’

He tightened his grip, enough to bruise, enough to hurt, and jerked her up out of the chair and into his lap. The sheet tangled between them, unravelling to flash milky skin and bones too close to the skin. She gasped, hands fluttering between grabbing her clothes and grabbing him,, and he tilted her face back, a gloved hand cupping her jaw. The kiss was their twelfth and what was wrong with him that he could remember ever other time?

Sweet lips, the sugary scrape of honey sticking against his, and the push of her tongue against his as she rose up onto her tiptoes. He wanted to be cruel, to punish her for...everything, for his sins and her own, for leaving her behind and for letting herself be left.

Except she kissed him back, her fists twisting in his jacket and her teeth scraping his lips. It was as kiss as hungry as him, as desperate for something to fill the emptiness. The world stank less with her mouth on his, the roses and sweet wine taste of her cloying on his tongue.

His fingers dug into her skin, hard enough to bruise, to mark. He’d never marked her before, not when that was the alpha’s right. She leaned into him, her body all soft curves and shivers.

‘You think Miles will save you?’ he asked, lifting his head. His voice was cool, controlled, but his hand trailed along her thigh and his cock was hard and heavy under his uniform.

‘I never thought I’d need saved from you,’ she said.

Bass tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. ‘You do.’

He picked her up and carried her over to the bed, dropping her onto the soft mattress and leaving her there. The whore he sent for that night had brown hair and hazel eyes and she’d never touched Miles. He had to close his eyes and pretend she was someone else to get it up.

* * *

 

Despite the guards stationed outside the door, Emma was treated well enough and left strictly alone. She should have been happy. Short of being released, being left alone was the best of the available options. It was what she’d always...accepted was necessary. It was just easier being alone when she couldn’t smell him, couldn’t feel the ache of wanting someonecramping low in her stomach for the first time in...years.

Bass hadn’t been her last lover, but there hadn’t been so many in the years between. Most therons were...dangerous; all therons were dangerous, and being an omega made her beyond precious, a commodity.

Lying in her bed, silk sheets clinging to her skin, Emma slid her hand down her stomach. Her fingers dipped between her thighs, biting her lip as she stroked wet, slick flesh. A low noise escaped her, her hips lifting off the mattress and her toes curling.

She cupped her breast, thumb scraping her nipple into a hard, aching bud. Her skin felt scraped down to nerve endings and tenderness, sparks hissing through her skin at every touch and pleasure knotting her muscles in tight, restless knots. The long planes of her thighs fluttered from knee to groin and she tilted her head back against the pillows, closing her eyes.

Despite herself - despite all good sense - she thought about Bass touching her. His lips on her collarbone and his hands sure and gentle between her legs. Except..that wasn’t her Bass anymore, he wasn’t her Bass.

There’d be teeth - rougher than Miles, scraping over bone instead of the curves of flesh - and his hands were rougher now, impatient. A quick little breath caught behind her lips, a jag of not entirely healthy arousal sliding thick and warm through her. The anger just there under his fingers.

Almost...but…

Miles. She squeezed her eyes tighter shut and thought of the solid warmth of Miles behind her. Chest against her back, hands splayed flat across her stomach and his cock pressed hard against her bottom. Sometimes - usually - she’d found it hard to believe the respectable member of the community (and mother, but she tried not to even let herself think about that) had been such a…

What? Bad girl?

For a theron it wasn’t, for a theron it was the prefered breeding pairing. Betas could reproduce with baseline humans, but only with a 3% chance of breeding true. Alphas were sterile except with omegas. And Omegas mutation-low fertility was boosted by exposure to bound-pairs chemical makeup.

Except baseline sexual morality was the only one Emma had for a long time, so she’d always thought it was a bit...naughty (or slutty. Slutty and that’s why they’d not wanted her). She pulled her mind away from that old, self-hating train of thought and focused on the heat twisting in her body, the imaginary hands touching her, inside her.

She bit the inside of her lip, hard enough to taste blood and -

A door slammed. She flinched, startled, and snatched her hand away from herself. Bass stalked into the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him. His hands yanked at his uniform, stripping his jacket off and wrenching the heavy belt from around lean hips.

‘I could smell you,’ he rasped. ‘All the way through the halls. Everyone could smell you.’

Emma took a breath, realising the familiar, heady fug of arousal was real, not imagined. She should scream, she should… Well, something other than pushing the sheets back and holding out a sex wet hand to him.

* * *

 

It felt like a goddamn wire running from her pussy to his cock, her arousal jerking him hard without a by your fucking leave. She’d always been able to do that, a look and he was aching for her, but he’d thought it was because they were teenagers. He’d been 16, a strong breeze and a peach could give him a hard-on.

Apparently it was just Emma.

Except he wasn’t 16 now. He might want her, but on his terms. She wasn’t going to lead him around by the cock anymore.

He grabbed her hand- fingers slick and wet and stinking of sex - and dragged her up of the bed, spinning her around and shoving her against the wall. Her body was different, the lean lines he remembered softened and curved. He kissed her neck, mouthing at the tender skin over her pulse. The scrape of his teeth made her laugh on a shudder, tilting her head back on his shoulder.

Her lips were right there, soft pink and parted to reveal the softer seam inside. Bass ignored them, worrying a bruise into her throat with teeth and lips.

‘Don’t move.’

He let her go, tugging his trousers open and freeing his cock. The scrape of calluses along the sensitive skin made his breath hitch with familiarity. Other than the occasional whore, the last years jerking off had seemed less hassle than involving someone else in the process. Someone he couldn’t trust.

‘Can I trust you?’ he asked Emma on a whim, one hand between her legs to spread her open. She bit her lip and pushed back against him.

‘No,’ she said raggedly, something sad in her voice. ‘Probably not. I’m sorry.’

He fucked her anyhow, pushing himself into her in one rough stroke. She cried out, muffling the sound against his fist, as she finished what she started and came. Her body clenched around his cock, fluttering against it like fingers. Bass grabbed her hands again and pinned them against the wall, stretching her out lean and tight. He rode out her orgasm with slow, lazy strokes, jaw set against control, until she sagged boneless and satiated, making low, throaty sounds as his cock sent aftershocks through over stimulated nerve-endings.

‘I missed you,’ he admitted, nipping her earlobe. ‘You always were an easy lay.’

She flinched, anger flushing through her pale skin, but she still whimpered and gasped with pleasure as he fucked her against the wall. Wet and slick and taut around him, her body all soft lines and tight eagerness.

Her scent caught on his skin, on his tongue - still sweet but it was like he could smell something under the emptiness.

He came inside her - laughing at her when she came back to herself to curse. ‘I’m sterile, remember, and you’re no spring chicken.’

It hadn’t actually been an insult, but she still cursed him again and tried to squirm away. He pinned her against the wall with his body, breathing in her odd, secretive scent and his softening cock still inside her.

‘Did you ever really believe Miles loved you?’ he asked. He slid his hand down and spread it over his stomach, feeling the faintly loose skin and finding the faint silvery, stickleback lines against his fingers. Pregnant. The thought was odd - twitching his cock and grinding his teeth in instinctive, opposed reactions to the idea. He didn’t want to know who’d got her pregnant or what happened to them, didn’t want to believe that anything about her had changed since she’d been his. ‘He never shared any of his other women with me, not the ones that matter. Maybe you didn’t matter that much, and that’s why he didn’t mind me joining in.’

It was an insult, but even he could hear the old rejection in his voice. His issues crawling out and putting themselves on display. He was Miles’ beta, they were meant to fuck together. The doctors in the military had talked about, all chemicals and genetic locks and science. It all made sense, even when he didn’t understand it, because fucking Miles, being fucked by Miles, fucking with Miles was the only time it felt right.

Bedding a baseline human was like jerking off; it felt good but there was no...connection. It was just cock and friction, they didn’t smell right or taste right. Miles wasn’t there.

Except Emma. She was...different. He buried his face in her shoulder, breathing in again, and he could himself on her now. There was also something…

Before he could chase that idea down, she shoved him off and grabbed for the sheets, wrapping them around with shaking hands.

‘That shouldn’t have happened,’ she said. Bass got the idea she was talking to herself as much as him. There was a bruise on the back of her thigh where his holster had dug into her skin.

‘But it did,’ he said, tucking his cock away and grabbing his belt off the bed. ‘And Emma, it will again.’

She glared at him, shoving sweaty hair back from her face. ‘That’s called rape, Bass.’

‘Only if you say no, and you won’t. Will you?’

Colouring dully, she looked away. The lingering arousal in the air thickened as she pressed her thighs together.

‘I didn’t think so.’

 


	3. Chapter 3

It was Emma. It was Bass.

That was the only answer Miles had to the questions about why he had to go to Philly. Charlie tried. She couldn’t help the disappointment though, the doubt in big blue eyes that had dragged him out of a bottle. Except she’d had to beg him to rescue her brother, and even then it had taken Neville Jnr crashing through his life to beat the entropy of self-destructive. Now he was tearing off to Philly, the fuck with Foster and her army.

It was Bass though. It was Emma. It was...it was just different.

‘We’re family,’ Charlie had told him. Her earnestness had been like a knife. The thing - the thing she didn’t know - was that their family had been a tenuous thing. How could you family with something that shared your blood, but not your genetics.

Something. That had stung.

No - that was him now, the Miles with the sneer and snark for every occasion. Back then it had hurt, bone deep and scraping. He hadn’t blamed Ben, though. They’d never been close - five years and about a thousand IQ points between them. Miles, even before he was typed as a theron, had been a bruiser: guns and pockets of ooze, bloody knees and dog-eared report cards that were an index of failure. Meanwhile Ben had been winning the science fair and being ‘advanced for his age’. When he found out his little brother was, genetically, not even the same species as him...it made a lot of sense.

So they’d both remade their own families in their own image. Ben with his intellectual house of ideas and Miles with a sweaty, musky bunk he’d shared with Bass and the memory of Emma.

Charlie couldn’t understand that - shouldn’t understand that. She was theron. He’d smelt it on her the first time they’d been alone, like… Hell, he didn’t have the right words. She smelled theron, she smelled right - that distinct under-smell of hot adrenaline and ultraviolet. Beta though, thank fuck. He didn’t think he could have dealt with another Alpha as stubborn as Charlie. It would have ended up bloody.  Alpha or beta though, a girl that thought family was that important didn’t to start doubting that her Dad loved her.

So, he left her. Again. It was easier than trying to explain.

Miles tethered his horse to a dented bike-rack outside Starbucks and razored his hair down to stubble in the cracked, sour washroom. There looked a lot more grey in the stubble than he’d thought, and it left his face oddly naked. Old. Yet sharply familiar at the same time. He rubbed his thumb down a lean cheek. The last time he’d worn his hair this short, he’d been 19 and desperate to save Emma.

She’d been normal, a real girl. What could they offer her?

That made him grimace in frustration. Five damn years and it was still ‘they’, never him. He’d spent so much of his life as a pair, he couldn’t reset to being alone (lonely).

He scruffed his hand through his hair and went back outside. Half of him expected to find Charlie sitting there, glaring at him with the full power of reproachful, stroppy teenager. She wasn’t. Of course, she wasn’t. Charlie was good, but Miles was better and he’d literally burned his bridges behind him.

Eventually she’d probably catch up. The mixture of her loyalty and her instinctive reaction to him as alpha...she’d catch up. Hopefully, by then this would be done.

He left the horse where it was. He’d be quicker on his own.

* * *

 

Emma tilted her head to the side, pushing her hair back over her shoulder, and pulled a face at the mottled smear of bruises on her pale skin. They shaded from new and blue to the fading brown of fall leaves, running from her ear to her collarbone. Bass was...possessive. It wasn’t - hadn’t been - like him.

She didn’t mind; it just felt like he was...brittle. It also made injecting her suppressant a pain in the, well, neck. Emma walked her fingers down her necks to the restless bubble of her pulse, tender skin aching, and pressed the needle gingerly. Skin popped, a bubble of blood swelling.

Ow. She clenched her teeth. For most of her life she’d been doing this, but it still made her queasy. She averted her eyes from the her reflection and froze, eyes going huge. Miles crouched in the window, staring at her with dark, grim eyes.

‘M-’

She got the syllable out, and then he crossed the room and slapped the needle out of her hand. It hit the ground and shattered, pale liquid soaking into the rug. The sharp, almost acidic smell of it filled the air.

‘What the hell are you doing,’ he growled, dragging her up out of the seat and shaking her. ‘You knew I’d come to get you.’

‘You didn’t before,’ Emma snapped, the accusation slipping out. Old pain, stale pain. She swallowed hard and pushed past it. ‘It wasn’t - I wasn’t - it was medicine.’

He sniffed the air, licked it with a swipe of his tongue. ‘It doesn’t smell like anything that’d be good for you.’

‘Neither do you.’

He snorted laughter and touched her jaw, his fingers stroking her marks. It started as concern and slid into something else, fingers caressing the shape of Bass’ mouth.

‘Did he...’

‘We did.’

There was relief in his sigh. It was an out wasn’t it? Another excuse and...the urge to fix it, to fix them, was overwhelming. Emma blamed the broken suppressant. Chemicals were better than sentiment - they didn’t make you feel quite so pathetic. It had been 20 years - how could she still care?

‘You should talk to him,’ she said.

He grimaced and shook his head. ‘You don’t know what he’s like now, Emma,’ he said. ‘He...’

‘He’s feral,’ Emma said. ‘He’s trying to be Alpha, to stay in control, and it’s cycling him out. You know that.’

Guilt and surprise slammed over Miles face. Emma rolled her eyes at him. ‘We’ve got older, Miles. We’re not so old that memory loss has set in. I read the books too, remember. In fact, I was the only one who read the books. Apart, you’re both dangerous.’

‘Together we’re worse.’

‘Why?’

He gave an impatient grunt and grabbed her arm. ‘We don’t have time for this. You need to come with me.’

Emma dug her heels in. ‘Where?’

‘What?’

‘Go ‘with you’ where.’

‘Georgia.’

She stared at him. He said it like it was a done deal, like it should have been obvious. ‘No.’

‘Why not.’

‘If I wanted to go to Georgia, I would have gone to Georgia,’ she said. ‘I have...I have reasons to stay in Jasper.’

Miles’ eyes narrowed and he stroked her elbow, thumb lingering against the tender inner skin. ‘A man?’

‘Sorta.’

‘Fine. Bring him too.

Emma crossed her arms, bunching her fists in the loose fabric of her sleeves. ‘That might be a problem.’

He gave her an annoyed look, like she was just being deliberately obstructive now. ‘I’m trying to rescue you, Emma. We should probably get a move on. The militia ain’t as good as when I was in charge, but they’re not completely incompetent.’

‘He’s my son.’

* * *

 

That made Miles let go and step back, hiding pain behind a wall of smirk. He’d wanted kids...one day. The three of them had planned - as much as giddy, ignoring the reality around teenagers can plan - to adopt one day. Like social services would have been just thrilled about that.

‘His Dad not want to leave?’

She opened her mouth and closed it again, pale eyes flickering away from his face. Under the bruise on her throat her pulse fluttered nervously.

‘Sort of, yes.’

‘You’re lying.’

She gave him a glare. ‘Prove it.’

He started to argue, took a deep breath and stopped himself. They weren’t teenagers any more, they didn’t have the time to argue in circles. ‘Fine. We grab the kid and run.’

She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders like she was going to say something - something she didn’t want to say. Before she could Miles heard the clatter of boots in the hall outside. Bass. He grabbed Emma and yanked her around, hooking his arm around her throat. His knife creased her throat.

‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered into her hair.

Bass stalked into the room flanked by guards, Jeremy looming apologetically at his shoulder. Despite everything, despite his own fuck-ups, Miles still waited a second for that grin and hug. Instead, Bass glanced at him, at Emma and then his eyes dropped to her throat and went cold. It took a second, but Miles remembered the trickle of blood bright against Emma’s bruises.

‘He hurt you.’ Bass finally smiled. It was cold and didn’t mean his eyes. ‘That’ll make killing him easier.’

‘Yeah, you keep trying,’ Miles jeered. ‘One of these days, you’ll be able to take the training wheels off.’

‘Don’t,’ Emma said, reaching up and digging her fingers into his arm. ‘Both of you, stop it.’

‘Been saying that for years,’ Jeremy muttered.

‘It’s too late, Emma,’ Bass said. ‘I’m a mad dog, isn’t that right, Miles?’

‘If the slavering and hydrophobia fits,’ Miles shrugged. ‘When is the last time you had a drink of water?’

Bass snarled and prowled into the room, trying to cut around Miles so Emma wasn’t in the way. Not quite ready to draw weapons, they cut at each other with words. Compared to 30years of friendship, five years was nothing. They still knew where to wound.

It was Jeremy - low-grade Beta, almost aggressively non-dominant - who caught up first. He licked the air, stared at Emma and abruptly threw everyone else out of the room.

‘Traitor,’ Bass snarled.

Jeremy rolled his eyes. ‘No.’ He walked over to the rug and crouched down, rubbing his fingers in the sharply pungent chemicals. ‘You were both military right? Lots of outlets for aggression, fucking anything that moved on the government dime.’

30 years of friendship. They both looked at Emma at the exact same time, the exact same sheepish expression on their faces.

‘Idiots,’ she muttered. She took a deep breath. ‘I take it you weren’t?’

‘Dermatologist,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Not exactly the sort of environment you could get away with losing your temper every time a base-line got in your face. Luckily it paid well enough I could afford suppressants. Nasty stuff though, smelt like...’

He sniffed his fingers again. ‘Diesel and white spirits and acid. Only thing is, after the blackout it was impossible to find. Guess I never made it to Jasper.’

Miles felt Emma’s throat move against his hand as she swallowed. ‘My Dad was a chemist. He didn’t trust the government much. Had a lot of friends.’

‘In the resistance?’

‘I don’t think they ever called themselves that.’

‘Missed a trick there then.’

Miles didn’t have a clue what was going on. He didn’t like it, and from Bass’ scowl he shared that feeling. It felt increasingly ridiculous to be holding Emma hostage, even fake-hostage, so he let her go. She stepped away him, hugging herself protectively.

‘Sam Bennett,’ she said, voice catching and hitching in odd places. Like she’d never thought she was going to point these words together. ‘That’s my son’s name.’

‘I don’t care,’ Bass said, face closing off. ‘I don’t care about your life before, Emma. It’s gone now. I won’t -’

‘He’s 28,’ she said, ignoring him. Miles grabbed Bass’ shoulder as his friend stalked impatiently to the door and held him in place. ‘Captain Sam Bennett of the Monroe Militia.’

‘He’s theron?’ Bass said, frowning.

‘He’s 28?’ was where Miles brain caught.

Jeremy stood up, thighs flexing under his trousers. ‘Congratulations, Generals. It’s a grown man.’

  
  
  
  
  
  


 


	4. Chapter 4

It used to be easy. They used to be easy.

Things changed. People changed. All you could do was adapt, or try. None of them were sure it was going to work yet. It turned out that five years meant nothing and everything. On the other hand, twenty meant more or less the same thing.

Miles sprawled on the bed, Emma tucked against his stomach and Bass a hot sprawl at his back. He let his hands trace patterns over the soft curve of Emma’s stomach and long planes of her thighs; Bass dipped his hand over his hip, fingers sliding between their bodies and into the dampness of sex.

This worked though - still.

Callused fingers stroked the knot of his cock, slicking it with Emma’s juices. Sensation cramped through his body, aching down his thighs and up into his stomach. It balanced on the heady crux between pleasure and pain and sex, and made him growl and Bass laugh.

He did that now. Sometimes.

Emma chuckled suddenly, the vibration of the sound humming through his nerve-endings.

‘Remember the first time I slept with you?’ she asked.

‘Hmm,’ Bass said noncommittally

‘What?’ Miles asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘I thought his penis was broken,’ Emma said over him. ‘It didn’t...’ She shifted, squeezing her thighs around him to make him gasp. ‘I’d only ever been with you. I thought this was...normal.’

‘It is,’ Miles grumbled. ‘Let’s not start calling my penis abnormal, ok?’

‘I didn’t mind being able to get up though,’ Emma went on thoughtfully. ‘18 year old you mostly communicated by grunting.’

He pushed his hips against her, the bulge of his cock sliding deeper and making her gasp. ‘I don’t recall you complaining.’

‘I didn’t want to make you feel self-conscious.’

He growled and rolled her onto her back, his knot tugging at her entrance hard enough to make her gasp. The smell of her filled his nose - the sweetness of her scent and the new undersmell of sun and salt.

Charlie would come round. She liked Emma - couldn’t help it - and as much as she hated Bass she hated the war more.

The others…

He’d loved Nora, been in love with Rachel, but they weren’t part of him. He’d miss them, but not like he’d cut his arms off.


End file.
